


The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where pop idol Kim Jongin has to deal with something worse than class-A bitches and creepy sasaengs: falling in love with the CEO’s son. - Chanyeol/Jongin</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for forjongin fic exchange! I owe my grammar + plot betas hearteulips and pororoporn. I wouldn't have survived the deadly plot holes and comma splices without them. And to my very, very, very lovely recipient bambi_lu, I love you so much!

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Your shoot is in ten minutes.”

 

“What the – I though it’s supposed to be in an hour –“

 

“Yixing just called. You’re going to attend the nine o’ clock gala.”

 

His eyebrows hitch up at this. He hasn’t been religiously keeping track of his own promotional activities as of late, but he’s absolutely sure he’s not booked for anything tonight. “What gala?” Jongin asks.

 

“The Fire Fighters fundraiser?” Kyungsoo says without really looking at him, pushing buttons on his phone. “Ring any bells?”

 

 “I thought you said the management cancelled it already because of the music show tomorrow!” Jongin exclaims.

 

“Sorry, Jongin.” His tone almost makes Jongin believe that Kyungsoo is sincere, but angry, squinted eyes and a deep set frown easily hack the uttered apology into bits—and Jongin understands. As his manager, Kyungsoo’s in enough shitstorm as it is. “Change of plans: apparently Junmyeon thought it’d be best to spread the butter a bit thicker this time.  The editor of _Music Slam!_ would be there.”

 

“Fuck,”Jongin swears, and Kyungsoo’s sympathetic enough not to tell him to curb his tongue.

 

There’s a flurry of hands armed with brushes and kohl. Jongin dizzies himself with the blaring light bulbs plastered all around the mirror, all the while counting down to the six hundred seconds of even more blaring light bulbs with lens accompaniments.

 

Fundraiser. Dance rehearsal. Vocal practice at four in the morning. A music show. Three interviews (one onscreen, two in ink). Jongin gauges how much sleep he would get in car rides and the in between. Division of time. Subtraction of labor. _Probably none_ , he thinks.

 

The small-statured manager furiously texts the PR to spread the news that pop sensation Kai would be joining in on the festivities of the exclusive Fire Fighters Fundraiser, all the while ordering the make-up artists to retouch the smeared concealer on Jongin’s forehead.

 

The ride to the fundraiser is uneventful as rides from photo shoots with demanding screen directors usually are. Jongin’s exhausted to the bone, and he makes it known by singing nursery rhymes out of tune.

 

Kyungsoo’s wide eyes are shielded by jet-black hair—he’s currently rescheduling Kai’s flight to Nagoya, Japan from the twenty-fifth to the twenty-seventh with his mobile. “Make sure not to cause a scene there, Jongin,” Kyungsoo tells him.

 

“I won’t.” Jongin’s sigh fogs up the glass, the sound barely audible from the smooth whir of the vehicle’s A/C. He then sings his favorite Christmas songs, even though it’s yet to hit the –ber months according to the small calendar in Kyungsoo’s planner. He watches the residential condominiums warp into commercial skyscrapers and neon-green billboards through the tinted glass.

 

Jongin’s at the last verse of _Auld Lang Syne_ when they arrive at the red carpet at exactly eight thirty-five. Despite his sexy, bad boy image, SM Entertainment’s Kai is never known to be late.

 

“I’ll be meeting with the editor of _Music Slam!_ You can handle things on your own, right?” Kyungsoo says before the valet opens the limousine’s door for them, and he’s already out before Jongin can give an answer.

  
He inhales the sickening air of glamour in the public sphere, a pack of burly men in black caps and black belts in tow. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he doesn’t need to rehearse any badass lines in his head since SM has already declined any chances for interviewers to hound him tonight. Six months in the industry and he’s already figured out that he’d be doing a lot of singing and dancing, but not really a lot of talking. In times he does talk, it’s not his words coming out of his mouth.  
  
It’s the second time this day that layers of incandescent white blind him. Jongin fights back by flashing his five-thousand watt grin.

 

He waves at the crowd, bows at the right time, winks at the right girls. Wowing the masses is innately Kai, and his manufactured alter-ego is doing a good job of keeping a worn-out Jongin from toppling over the line of stanchions beside the revolving door. Like always, he’s thankful that a lot of his fans are here. Jongin soaks up energy from their screams and declarations of love.

 

The guards let him in without a word. He hears some of the reporters mumble, “SM’s new eye-lined chew toy. Give it a year and he’ll sue the company for millions.” The smile never wavers, but Jongin clenches his fists.

 

A board director of some dismal music label halts to clap on Jongin’s back. “Ahh! Kai’s finally here!” he greets jovially. Jongin bows, struggling to remember the name buried somewhere in between showcases and clinking of wine glasses. “The Lees had been heartbroken to hear you wouldn’t come, but I’m glad your management had a change of heart! Thanks to you, the outside venue is packed.”

 

“Thank you,” A pause. Jongin gives up, “Sir.”

 

“Had a hard time parking my Audi with the crowd, though, but all is well! I’ve heard the items that’d be auctioned tonight are extravagant!”

  
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about auctions,” Jongin responds.

 

“Ahh, yes, of course! If I were as young and popular and busy as you, I wouldn’t know much of these things either.” The man then bids him goodbye, heading straight for the round table filled with other dignitaries. Jongin looks around for a good place to hide before the program begins.

 

The galleria is spacious, with thick, crimson walls sloping towards a domed ceiling. The August night air easily wafts through the high windows. It’s still warm, but in a few weeks the nights would start to cool.

 

It’s not long before the A-list celebrities have all had their pictures taken that Jongin finds an empty stool on the bar station. He takes out his phone. _Kyungsoo hyung,_ Jongin types. _What am I supposed to do now?_

The reply is instant. _Where are you?_

_At the bar._

_Good. Just stay there and look cool._

“I’ll have one Jack and coke, please,” Jongin says to the bartender, sighing. He has already pocketed his phone and didn’t get to read Kyungsoo’s subsequent text message: _Don’t get drunk._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongin’s at his sixth glass when someone flops ungracefully onto the high stool like an announcement. He lazily clues in on the press ID dangling on a thin, blue lace, its tip tucked inside the flaps of his plaid polo shirt. Jongin snorts delicately.

 

“No manager?”

 

Jongin licks his lips, nodding.

 

“Huh. Used to think SM all had you collared down. No offense.”

 

Jongin plays with the ice in his glass. “The company actually gives me and the other artists a lot of freedom,” he replies with as much nonchalance he can muster; he’s been taught long ago how to make a lie very convincing, and most of the time he fools himself into believing it.  
  
The man looks at him doubtfully, apparently not biting the fib as enthusiastically as Jongin expected. The tips of his shaggy, dusty brown hair touch the rims of his glasses, exuding an aura of a gangling youth. It makes Jongin wonder if the man is as young as Jongin guesses he is.

 

“I never thought Park Moonsik,” he utters SM’s CEO’s name like a curse, “Had some sort of gentle side – he’s all horns and fangs in the tabloids, you know?”

  
Jongin jerks his head on the man’s ID. “You definitely would know, right? Since it’s _your_ job.”

 

The man guffaws, the loudest of laughs Jongin has ever heard. It’s somewhat boisterous, with his head thrown back and his whole body shaking, a complete set of shiny white teeth gleaming along with the chandelier crystals.

 

“I’m not with the media,” the tall man claims, holding up his press pass into a dismissive wave, fanning it in front of his face. “Got this from a friend who knows a guy.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“Same reason as everyone is,” he says lightly. “Charity. Out of goodness of the heart.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

The other cracks an amused smile.  “Are you drunk?”

 

“Probably.”

 

The man laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “The Lees are auctioning a good deal of quality paintings for the fire fighters. I’m in it for the haul. I like art. Mostly just to spite my dad, but—” he stops there, as if something struck him abruptly, and notices the half-empty glass bottle and coke can near Jongin’s fingertips. “More importantly, why is a newly-debuted idol drinking Tennessee whiskey? Alone? Are you even of age?”

 

“I’m twenty-one.” Jongin can tell he’s already slurring his words, each syllable like bubbles breaking though the paper thin skin of a lake.  “They told me to look cool. I’m drinking to look cool.”

 

“Drinking’s not actually cool. I can cut open your liver so you could see for yourself.”

 

Jongin mindlessly fiddles with the white gold cuff links on his Armani. _I had an all-kill debut album_ , he muses out of nowhere. A rave new dance single with even raver reviews, hot flux of crazy girls all wanting to suck him off in their deepest fantasies, default six-digit figures in the automated check Jongin receives every month.

 

“Hey,” Jongin starts, and the man turns to look at him.

 

“Does it make any sense,” he thinks out loud. “That six months in, I’m already thinking of quitting my contract?”

 

Shrugging, the man takes out a thick wad of cash from his wallet, about to vacate the area before turning to him, “It happens.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Kyungsoo arrives with his hair slicked back and his trusty Blackberry still magnetized to his hand, he swats the napping Jongin not unkindly at the back of his head. “I told you not to drink too much,” he says, taking a swig from the diluted Jack and coke that Jongin left on the table. “Your voice is going to be scratchy tomorrow.”

 

Jongin rubs the sore spot, yawning slightly. “I’ve drunk like five bottles of soju twelve minutes before the showcase in MBC last month. I’ll be fine.”

 

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “You look filthy. Fix yourself up and go straight to the function hall. Ticket’s right here, and your seat number is three-fifty-two. I would’ve gotten you a better seat, but the company kinda booked you in the last minute. I’ll be staying at the very back if you need me.”

 

“What about the magazine?”

 

At this, Kyungsoo’s face turns smug. “Do you even have to ask?”

 

Jongin laughs. Of course.  It probably took only a minute before his manager had those people from _Music Slam!_ sweltering in the iron grip of his small hands. Kyungsoo prattles on again, declaring that they would be meeting next week, nine am on Thursday. It’s another five-hour long interview and a two-page spread of himself clad in thick make-up and ultra-skinny jeans, but he knows he should be grateful all the same. “Thanks a lot, hyung.”

 

They arrive at the hall ten minutes later, Kyungsoo slipping to the very back along with the deluge of cameras and heavy microphones. Jongin watches as guests more than twice his age fight over the center aisle seats despite the seating number, like kids squabbling over who gets the window seat on an airplane.

 

He falls asleep for the most part of the bidding. Nobody blames him, though—the unwanted items are always, always auctioned at the start, and there’s no flaunting of hideous sacks of cash yet. At the latter half of the auction the bidding war starts, and at this Jongin’s eyes are somewhat half-open.

 

A stage assistant wearing a skimpy red dress wheels in an ancient-looking jar that has Jongin scrunching up his nose. The bidding starts from 500,000₩ and finishes with 970,000₩. Jongin almost pities the tasteless man who wasted a significant amount of money on some useless old pottery.

 

The next one’s a painting—some kind of Monet copy-cat atrocity, or at least that’s what Jongin thinks – but he feels something stirring within the crowd, and suddenly everybody wants it.

 

“Five hundred!” a man descending to his sixties calls from the front.

 

“Seven hundred!”

 

“Eight hundred fifty!”

 

Another one shouts, “One million!”, and the bidding goes on, and on, the prices go even higher, higher, higher. The price for uncalculated dabs of unmixed colors on a golden-framed canvas reach about 2,500,000 ₩, and Jongin almost contemplates raising his hand even though he doesn’t have the money, just for the hell of it. A butchery of Impressionism, quite literally.

 

“Five million!”

 

There’s a collective gasp. Everyone turns to the source of the voice and grumble at the audacity of this businessman, but all they see is a guy standing at the back of the room in painfully casual clothing, holding his hand up high in the air. Jongin easily recognizes the tall, lean figure, the fake Press pass dangling from creased lapels, the odd, happy smirk—and it dawns on him that the bartender didn’t ask him to pay for his excessively marked-up bottle of whiskey.

  
The announcer closes the bidding unsurely, “Uhh, s-sold! To that guy at the back wearing a – uh – checkered polo shirt.”

 

Jongin watches Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist grin happily, wide-eyed.

 

“We have another item before our crown jewel!” the announcer pipes up, regaining his composure. “This had been one of Mrs. Lee Junghee’s purchases when the family spent their holidays in California, and although it may seem like a primitive object to anyone who has an eye for the finest—as I assume many of you in this hall are—the person who had been dedicated to the production of this item had been a living art form, one of the greatest to have ever graced the Earth. I am truly humbled to present to you…

 

A limited edition Michael Jackson coffee mug!”

 

Jongin sits up from his slouching posture. _What?_

 

“Opening up the bid for five hundred! Five hundred? Any takers?”

 

Before he realizes it, Jongin’s hand is up in the air. “Five hundred!” he squeaks.

 

The function hall is buzzing in a matter of seconds— “Isn’t he an idol?” “Oh my god, it’s Kai!” “He’s bidding for an MJ collectible? Is he a fan boy or something?” —and suddenly, Jongin feels like he’s ten again, dancing along to _Smooth Criminal_ in his backyard where nobody could see him, a new high pulsing through his veins.

 

A lady wearing pearls the size of marbles raises a manicured finger. “Five hundred fifty!”

 

“Six hundred!” Jongin yells back.

 

“Seven hundred!”

 

“Seven hundred fifty!”

 

The hall is no longer buzzing—it’s flat out noise and exclamations of astonishment, and Jongin ignores the urgent vibrating of the phone in his pocket. He’s absolutely positive the only thing holding back Kyungsoo from decking him right there and then is social propriety; Jongin would probably have to do a lot of sucking up after tonight, but he can’t find himself to care. He wants that mug.

 

“One million!”  the woman declares, staring at him with a heavy glint in her eyes that Jongin considers as flat-out eye-fucking, and he stands up, raising his hand in retaliation. “One million and fifty-thousand!” he barks.

 

The woman flips her auburn hair, winking at Jongin. “Two million!”

 

 _Shit,_ Jongin curses in his head. He can’t go any higher than that.

 

“Two million going once!” the dealer woops, and Jongin sinks back to his chair, defeated. “Going twice! So – “

 

“Four million!”

 

Another collective gasp. Jongin whirls around.  He’s almost not surprised to see Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist holding his hand up again, grinning crookedly at him.

 

Nobody combats the 4,000,000₩ over a piece of used ceramic. The woman with the pearls slinks away, suddenly engrossed in her fingernails.

 

“Four million going once! Four million going twice! _Aaaand_ sold again to that lovely person at the corner!”

 

Jongin turns away, fuming. He can tell that a number of eyes are on him, but he doesn’t look back.

 

 _Just who the hell does this guy think he is?_ Jongin growls angrily in his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 “Idiot.”

 

Kyungsoo’s face is devoid of emotion, but somehow it’s the harshest thing Jongin has ever heard him say tonight.

 

They’re on their way back to the dorm. Jongin is nursing a headache with a tablet of Paracetamol and a bottle of water.

 

“I can already see the words _‘Fanboy Kai’_ in bold letters everywhere,” his manager promises. “I don’t think a year’s worth of damage control is going to cut it. Why did you have to bid for that piece of shit, of all things?”

 

“I lost anyway,” Jongin says bitterly. “And what’s wrong with being called a fanboy?  What’s wrong with liking stuff?”

 

Kyungsoo almost looks sympathetic. “That’s not the image you’ve agreed to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongin receives a curious parcel almost a week after the fundraiser. It’s small, poorly wrapped, with his name and SM’s official mailing address scribbled in messy, sloped handwriting. He hides it in his duffel bag.

 

The opportune moment comes after three hours of training with a Chinese-Dutch dancer, and Jongin runs to the nearby restroom, kicking the stall door open with the edge of his sneaker. He rips the layers of the thin wrapping paper.

 

The white mug almost falls off his grasp.

 

Jongin’s hands fumble over the handle, his nape slick and cool with perspiration. He reads the note taped on the underside of the cup, and his face contorts into that of disbelief, then confusion, and finally mortification. Cheeks red, he shreds the purple covering into pitiful confetti bits, and sprinkles it all over the mouth of the trash can. Jongin seethes all the way to his dorm. He grabs his coat and Kyungsoo’s car keys nestling near the basket of plastic fruits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you want to fuck me that bad?”

 

Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist, whose name Jongin comes to learn is Park Chanyeol, cocks an eyebrow at him, sporting a smile that is a smirk away from Jongin punching him squarely on the face. “I have no idea how you’ve reached to that conclusion,” Chanyeol says, “But hey, whatever you want, right?”

 

Jongin slides him the infamous mug, along with the post-it that says ‘ _Hope we can meet again sometime ;)’_ written in thick black ink that could only come from a  fountain pen.

 

“Look, mister. You may have misconstrued something. I’m not just somebody you can haggle your way into bed, and I won’t ever like you even if you’re rich enough to drag Michael Jackson back from the underworld.” He almost growls, _so you can shove your four million won mug up your ass_ , but thinks better of it.

 

“It was just an honest-to-god invite for, I don’t know, coffee or something,” Chanyeol tells him, , holding his hands up. “Don’t take it the wrong way.”

 

“Are you saying you’re not interested? I highly doubt it.”

 

“Idols,” Chanyeol sniffs derisively. He pockets his glasses inside his lab coat, flashing Jongin an admonishing stare. “They always think the world revolves around them. Ha. You’re as horrible as every girl who comes here asking for a boob upgrade.”

 

Jongin snarls, curling his upper lip.

 

“You really looked like you wanted the thing that bad!” Chanyeol defends. “It was just a gift. Jesus.”

 

Jongin sees the trashy 5,000,000 ₩ painting hung on the white-washed wall behind Chanyeol, and it angers him even more. “A gift, huh? That’s fucking novel.”

 

“See here, Jongin,” Chanyeol says, and Jongin doesn’t like it that they’re on a first name basis now. “You came here to my building, flirted with my secretary, barged into my office without an appointment and charged me with sexual harassment, which is by all means without any grounds.” The chuckle that comes next is light, but not all that pleasant in Jongin’s ears. “I can have you reported, you know.”

 

A frosty blow of fear knocks the wind out of Jongin. Even though he’s starting to dislike his profession, this is the kind of scandal he doesn’t want to blow up in the news reels. With much effort, he grits his teeth and shuts up.

 

“I didn’t send it because I wanted to have sex with you, Kim Jongin, but let’s say I’m interested,” Chanyeol restates, grinning. “So what?”

 

Jongin scowls. The nerve of this guy. “Then you’re one philandering, horny, rich little shit.”

 

Chanyeol laughs at this easily. “So is friendship out of the question?”

 

He shakes his head. “You’re a plastic surgeon. I’m an idol. People will talk.”

 

“A face like yours is hard to create. I think they already know that,” Chanyeol retorts wryly, and Jongin blushes.

 

“But why want to be friends with me? As you can tell, I’m not a very nice person.”

 

“Yeah, you’re pretty arrogant even for a singer/dancer/songwriter extraordinaire,” the giant laughs merrily, slapping his thigh with his equally enormous hand.

 

“Thanks so much, but you’re not answering the question.”

 

Chanyeol props his head with an arm, staring at the younger boy with an unnaturally profound gaze Jongin isn’t used to receiving from people. “I don’t know, actually,” Chanyeol answers a second later, his voice warm.

 

Jongin leaves Park Chanyeol’s office thirty minutes later, the absurdly expensive mug lying somewhere inside his duffel bag and the surgeon’s number saved on his phone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In downtown Seoul, it’s a heavenly day, with the sky crisp blue and the clouds as puffy as manufactured cotton ever could be.

 

Three days after that unceremonious meeting with Park Chanyeol in his office, and approximately twelve and a half hours after a brief SMScapade during one of the most boring CF shootings Jongin had ever been to ( _“Hey, Jongin-ah. Your butt looked cute on TV last night :D”_ ), Jongin agrees to meet the surgeon in the most secluded place on earth—Little France1

 

“Hey, mister! Are you Kai, the idol?”

 

Jongin buries his nose in his scarf. “No, you must have mistaken me for someone else. Sorry.”

 

“That’s weird!” the kid says, jutting out her chin in a small act of defiance. Her blonde pigtails are swishing as she shakes her head. “I just saw your face on a side of a building! It’s this big!” She mimes the size with her small hands, and Jongin chuckles.

 

He slides down his sunglasses a little to wink at the girl, grinning mischievously. “I guess I look a lot like him. Handsome, isn’t he?”

 

“Perverted chap, too.”

 

Jongin locks eyes with the owner of the low, familiar voice; Chanyeol’s abnormally wide beam is obscenely bright under the noontime sun, and Jongin meets it with a scowl of his own.  “Says the guy who ogles at breasts all day,” he retorts, crossing his arms. “You’re late.”

 

Chanyeol roars a booming laugh, and the girl with the pigtails fixates her attention on a blue butterfly fluttering around the marsh nearby, turning away from the two. “It’s part of the job description. And I’m not late,” Chanyeol reiterates. “You’re just early.”

 

Chanyeol leads the way deeper inside the park, and Jongin tries as hard as he can to look natural while hiding under the giant’s shadow. He hopes that he’s somehow merging with Chanyeol’s olive green peacoat for people not to notice.

 

“Relax, Jongin,” Chanyeol whispers, laying what is supposed to be a reassuring hand on his forearm so suddenly that Jongin’s soul almost jumps out of his body. Whatever the sentiment, it’s clearly not helping him calm down, as Jongin feels goose bumps coating his skin.

 

The path ends near the multitude of paintings hung on a wobbly framework of wood slightly covered with lichen, and Chanyeol stops at the base of the display where the wood starts splintering on all sides. There’s a man snoozing on a chair next to the paintings, his head bent back and his eyes covered by a grimy towel. His fingernails are devilishly long and covered with acrylic.

 

Chanyeol jerks his chin towards the man. “The artist,” he tells Jongin, grinning.

 

Jongin frowns. “I can see that. But why did you bring me here?” If Chanyeol wanted him to see some rinky-dink abstract paintings, he could’ve just taken him to that newly opened modern art gallery about three kilometers away, not so far from where they are standing. They always housed eclectic pieces from students, freelancers, and the like.

 

Chanyeol doesn’t answer him, and instead prods the sleeping man. “Kris hyung, Kris hyung,” he calls, lightly kicking the chair with his boot. “Kris hyung, wake up! It’s Chanyeol –“

 

“Go away, kid,” Kris murmurs, edging his chair away so that his back is facing them.

 

Undeterred, Chanyeol only laughs, shaking the legs of the chair as hard as he can until, all the while reciting Kris’s name like a Gregorian chant with his deep bass voice. Jongin almost cracks a grin at the scene.

 

Ultimately, Kris groans in defeat. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, sighing, standing up from his seat. “No wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear; noisy shitbags like you are all over the place.” He purses his lips and glares at Chanyeol. “What the hell d’you want?”

 

“I’d like to buy this one!” Chanyeol points to the farthest one of the lot, a silver-framed painting about one and a half meters long and one meter wide. The canvas is blotched with a mass of black and grey paint that, no matter how much he squints his eyes or turns his head, Jongin can only hope to understand.

 

Kris scratches his head. “‘The Nine Muses’? I don’t know, Chanyeol. It’s sort of unfinished – I stopped halfway when I grew tired of the idea –“

 

“Even better, hyung!” Chanyeol claps his hands together. “How much is it?”

 

“Forty-five thousand.”

 

“I’ll pay you sixty thousand.” At this, Jongin’s eyes widen.

 

Kris sighs. “I accept checks,” he says dryly, holding up his hand as he waits for Chanyeol to finish scribbling the amount on his checkbook.

 

 _This must happen a lot,_ Jongin assumes, judging from the way Kris is resignedly wrapping the canvass in a coffee -stained manila paper before turning over his work to Chanyeol’s enthusiastic hands. Chanyeol keeps uttering over and over again that it’s remarkable and all kinds of magnificent, and though Kris rolls his eyes, there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

 

On the other side of Banpo, in the unobtrusive air of a Japanese restaurant later that afternoon, Jongin decides to ask, “Why did you do that?”

 

Chanyeol stops from slurping his miso and peers at him through tufts of newly-dyed black hair. “I feel like I did something bad,” he says, smiling. “Why did I do what?”

 

“Bought that painting. It’s clearly unfinished, and you gave it – what? Fifteen thousand more than it’s worth?”

 

“Ahh,” Chanyeol hums, licking his lips. Jongin notices there’s still a dribble of soup at the edge of his mouth and he looks away, his stomach flopping like a fish out of water. “Did you like it?”

 

“What?”

 

“Kris hyung’s painting.”

 

Jongin shrugs, tapping his chopsticks on the rim of his rice bowl. “I’m not actually that good with art, so I’m—I don’t know. I guess it’s pretty enough.”

 

“Most of the time, people don’t know how much something is worth. Especially their own worth,” Chanyeol says. “That’s why I make a lot, I suppose. Moles, pockmarks, small blemishes—like those black daubs of paint on Kris hyung’s painting—perhaps people never get to see how iridescent they are when they try to vie for something unattainable.” He looks at him meaningfully. “I know art when I see one.”

 

Unknowingly, Jongin’s cheeks start to redden. He frowns at his bowl. “With that daunting philosophy, why are you even a plastic surgeon?”

 

“I think I’ve already told you before. It’s mostly just to screw with my dad,” Chanyeol says, laughing out loud. “Greedy SOB sells fake art and gets to bathe in a tub full of cash. I actually almost went to an art school because of him. But in my senior year in high school I enrolled in a Designs class and I thought it over, and I realized I’m not really good with an actual brush on paper, you know?”

 

“What does your dad do?” Jongin asks, and Chanyeol visibly stiffens for a moment.

 

He chuckles under his breath. Jongin notices his smile slipping. “He’s in the entertainment industry along with my brother. I haven’t been keeping in touch exactly.”

 

Jongin nods. He might have seen Chanyeol’s family somewhere, in a music show or in an awards night, or probably bowed or shook their hand at some formal gathering. He remembers Chanyeol slipping inside last week’s fundraiser wearing nothing but a pair of loafers, a plaid shirt, and a fake press ID, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses as he bids the highest on some painting made out of squiggly lines, and somehow Jongin understands. 

 

 “I think it’s my turn to ask you awkward questions,” Chanyeol quips, his smile back on his face, and Jongin doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or worried. “What about you, Jongin-ah?”

 

Jongin instantly reclines on the backrest, one of his hands toying with the unwound scarf hanging around his neck. “What about me?” he asks.

 

“Why do you want to quit being an idol?”

 

Jongin thought back on the time he first had his fan signing. It was in Busan, the air still painfully cold even though it was already spring. Jongin could still feel the chilled sheen of sweat on the tip of his nose, and the ones running on each side of his temples. There were a lot of people there, mostly girls and their sour-faced boyfriends. 

 

Somewhere up in a tree two teenagers were propped on a branch, taking hundreds of pictures of the great Kai in all his handsome splendor with their huge black-white DSLRs with shutter speeds faster than Jongin can blink.

 

Too bad the branch wasn’t thick enough.

 

It was a relatively long time ago, but sometimes the memory creeps on Jongin at the oddest times, like when he’s taking his morning tea, or running laps on a dreary Saturday evening. Or when he’s practicing parallel-parking with Kyungsoo’s car along the long nest of Mercedes and Corvettes.

 

Kyungsoo told him that the company took care of the medical fees so he shouldn’t worry about them too much, but Jongin knows SM did something more. There had been no coverage of the grisly fan signing, no snarky headlines or biting articles in the web. All there had been was silence, and in the next two months Jongin stared at the ceiling of his room, feeling nothing but the awful uneasiness growing inside him.

 

He was still a rookie then, but he thinks that was the time he stopped appreciating music for what it is, started disliking appearing on variety and late night shows with some slapstick comedian he absolutely detests. It was a rather early wake up call, but by the time he opened his eyes to the startling consequences of being an idol, the ink on his signed contract had long been dry.

 

He thinks of the fans as still the same, though, despite their over eagerness and borderline crazy behavior, and sends as much love as he can through the official message board and on award speeches.

 

“Hey, Jongin,” Chanyeol says. He places his hand over Jongin’s, pulling him out of his reverie. “You still there?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Jongin replies, straightening his posture. He deftly removes his fingers under Chanyeol’s palm as he takes a sip of water to clear his muddled thoughts.

 

He looks up to see Chanyeol watching him patiently, and Jongin answers, “I don’t actually know,” before going back to drinking his water again.

 

“You know what I think?”

 

Jongin shrugs. “What?”

 

“I think you got famous too fast,” Chanyeol says sagely. “That you must have lost a part of yourself along the way.”

 

Again, Jongin doesn’t affirm or correct him, pressing his lips together as he stares at Chanyeol taking a sip from his glass. “That’s rather philosophical of you, hyung,” he says, and he realizes in an instant that he sounded a bit too harsh. He flashes him an apologetic look, but Chanyeol’s smile doesn’t waver.

 

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you inspired again, I promise.” Chanyeol’s expression only changes to give Jongin a much warmer smile, and Jongin’s inwardly glad that the heater inside the restaurant is hitched a few degrees too high.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A week after, the sprinkles of post-summer dust that used to line the back of Jongin’s favorite shirt automatically dive to their death when they meet Kyungsoo’s disapproving stare.

 

“Where have you been?” the older man squawks, glaring at Jongin as the latter slings his rasta cap on a nearby hook on the wall. Jongin absentmindedly reaches for the tall glass of water on the countertop next to the pot of Kyungsoo’s jasmine oolong. “I called you forty-two times, and you wouldn’t even bother to give me a good excuse? You missed your dentist appointment today! It took me months to schedule it, Jongin. _Months!_ ”

 

“If it’s any consolation, I _did_ meet someone with a medical degree. Well, sort of.”

 

“Details, Jongin! Or I swear to god I will chuck you in a blender—”

 

“I met with the guy who I lost to last time in the fundraiser,” Jongin tells him hastily. “The one who got the limited edition MJ customized coffee mug. He’s a friend.” Or at least they’re trying to be. “And a surgeon.” A plastic surgeon, but Jongin doesn’t see the need to clarify. “Nothing to worry about.”

 

Kyungsoo snaps his head towards him, looking outraged. “You met with Chanyeol?”

 

Jongin stops drinking. “You know the guy?” he queries, slightly confused.

 

“How can I not? He’s Park Moonsik’s second son!”

 

Jongin’s cheeks stiffen. “S-son?” he stammers.

 

Kyungsoo’s arms fall to his sides, gaping widely. “You have no idea, do you? I know most people don’t usually recognize him—I’m sure you’ve noticed his silly romance with playing incognito or something - but you’ve trained here for four years and didn’t even –“

 

Jongin shakes his head, reigning in his lack of composure. “Of course I knew!” He insists, frowning. “I – I just thought you were the one who didn’t.”

 

Kyungsoo snorts. “If there’s one thing I don’t know about this damned company, it’s how they get the vending machines to work. You’ve been out for eight hours straight, and all this time you were with Park Chanyeol? Seriously, Jongin. If this is one of your dumb ploys to get yourself fired, please tell me ahead of time so I can scout for a new job.”

 

“There’s nothing to tell, hyung. No one’s getting fired.”

 

“I have four cats to feed so you’d better not.”

 

“We just talked, big deal. Why are you getting so worked up? ”

 

“No matter how popular you are right now, you’re still new in this business,” Kyungsoo warns. “Everyone’s itching for the slightest hint of trouble, and a fling with the CEO’s son is just the right kind of whopping that would never get you back up as soon as people find out.”

 

“That’s outrageous!” Jongin exclaims, waving his hands. “I only met him formally last week, hyung! Why are you talking like we’re going to fuck each other’s brains out in a urinal? Are you mad?”

 

Kyungsoo scowls, and Jongin can easily tell that his manager is holding something back, though whether it’s something important or not the younger can’t tell. “I’m not. It’s – it’s just a feeling, Jongin. You have to trust me on this. I’m asking you – not as your manager, but as your friend – to _please_ stay away, for both your sakes. You might not like being an idol anymore, but one toenail out of the line this early in the game and SM would sue you for violating some fine print in the contract. You’re going to be in ruins, and I don’t think even Chanyeol or I would be in any position to help you.”

 

And with that happy thought, Kyungsoo storms out of the living room. Jongin coughs out a choked groan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It seems like Park Chanyeol, the skyscraper-tall beaming art aficionado whose preferred medium is latex gloves on human skin, is a social recluse.  

 

Jongin went through online publications for days on end, munching through a bag of bungeoppang during breaks as he skimmed through bits and pieces of information concerning the Park family. He only found three photos of Chanyeol circulating around the internet, all of them taken during his gangly teenage years. Most of the articles didn’t even mention Park Moonsik had a second son—almost everything was centered on the man himself, or Chanyeol’s older brother Jaeyeol, the immediate successor of one of Korea’s largest entertainment companies.

 

Jongin even asked around fellow idols and trainees. Most have heard of him, some saw him once, few saw him twice, while others flat out asked him if he was joking.

 

The giant who Jongin associates with big laughs and goofy winter hats suddenly becomes an enigma, and he wonders whether all of the things he thought he saw had been real: the warm, jovial, ready-fire-aim guy has turned into an utter stranger.

 

The disquiet is deafening, so Jongin takes it in him to borrow Kyungsoo’s car again and drive downtown, where the children’s park is laid bare to the harsh rage of the wind. He arrives in less than fifteen minutes, the hat on his head set low to his sunglasses, his scarf wound around his neck.

 

Kris is playing checkers with himself. He doesn’t look up when Jongin’s shadow pervades the board. “You’re that same squirt who Chanyeol took here, aren’t you?” he says lazily, his elbow propping on his thigh.

 

Jongin clears his throat. “Yeah, the same one. There’s something I want to know. About Chanyeol hyung, I mean.”

 

“Go take a seat,” Kris instructs, pointing at the stool slumped on a metal post.

 

Jongin brushes the stray pollen on top and tentatively sits. “Chanyeol hyung… did you know each other long?”

 

“Enough, I guess,” the older one replies, flicking a pawn off a black square tile. He cocks a heavy eyebrow at Jongin. “He first saw me selling my work near a subway station and suggested I relocate here. Not that I sold ten times more than I sold back when I was pinching pennies along with street kids with my paintbrush, but I get to sell at least two or three paintings a day, which was a huge improvement. And as soon as he began operating he started buying my stuff like he’s hoarding for a global recession—says it’s for a personal gallery he keeps in his basement, I don’t know.”

 

“He’s a little weird,” Jongin confesses, recollecting everything from the few instances Chanyeol does something aberrant. Like that one time last week when Chanyeol had insisted on riding a toy Pegasus in the kid’s section of Lotte Department Store, or that day when they bought Kris’s painting in the park, where Chanyeol had made the idol push him on a swing set for leverage.

 

Kris nods gravely, and the image Jongin has painted of Park Chanyeol that had been tainted by dismal news articles becomes somewhat clearer, more vibrant.

 

“‘A veritable virtuoso of the arts’,” Kris mimics, and Jongin notices that five of the nine buttons on Kris’s shirt are undone. “That’s what he likes to say; truthfully, he’s just into saving starving artists like me. And I guess you, metaphorically.” He flashes him a knowing look. Jongin gulps.

 

“Did you know he’s a CEO’s son?” the idol questions, and he surprises himself when it comes out as somewhat desperate.

 

“Wouldn’t shut up about his dad the first five minutes we met,” Kris confirms, and Jongin immediately balks at this. “At first I thought he was boasting about it, but do a double take and you won’t even know the difference between Park Moonsik and horse dung anymore.” The elder smiles a bit at the memory. “He despises his father, especially the way he treats his artists.”

 

“So he splurges on you.” _And on me_.

 

Kris shakes his head. “I wouldn’t put it that way. He might be the main reason why I’m not homeless yet, but you know, that’s the worst part: he’s sincere about it. You know he doesn’t care about the money. Most rich folks are—when you have tons of cash stashed somewhere at your every disposal you won’t give a flying fuck about it either—but it’s different with Chanyeol. Give the guy a bird with a broken wing and he’ll nurse it even after it feels better, because that’s how he is. Chanyeol gets too fond of things and people quickly, and he’ll start giving them more than they need.”

 

Something horrible dawns on Jongin, something that creeps to his boots and snakes around his ankles to his shin, pulling him down desperately so he won’t move, can’t move.

 

He sees something familiar in Kris, and Jongin feels suddenly, bitterly exposed.

 

“You like him,” Jongin gapes, feeling like he got doused with cold water, and Kris looks away.

 

“Haven’t been able to push him away in time,” Kris says rather ruefully. He runs a hand through his dirty-blond hair, and he suddenly looks very tired. “I was failing art school. He egged me on to take my brush and pallet again and gave me an empty canvas for a fresh start. He was more than what I needed,” he adds quietly. “I became greedy, and selfish.”

 

Afterwards, Jongin wanders around a few times in the park before setting off, his heart even heavier than it had ever been. It becomes deadweight and drops to the floor when Kyungsoo plunks something heavy on the table, the ends of his lips pulled down into a grimace.

 

“I told you so,” is what Kyungsoo says before vacating the area, and Jongin already knows what’s inside the atrociously wrapped package, but he rips it open anyway.

 

Old albums of GOD, DBSK, and pictures of _La Scala_ litter the table, and sure enough there’s a purple post-it that greets him: _To rekindle the passion that has gone away for a while ;)_

It’s the same sloppy handwriting, with the same emoticon Jongin had mistook for a fulsome invite to bed.

 

Jongin drowns.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he resurfaces, he knows what he has to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t think this a good idea.”

 

Chanyeol chuckles. He’s wearing a different set of glasses now, Jongin notices. There are tiny rhinestones that adorn the edges, the rim a dirty purple _._ “Yeah, we really have to stop meeting like this: you barging in on my office unannounced and me about ten minutes away from an appointment. How about at that nice spaghetti house downtown? Let’s say about three o’ clock?”

 

“No,” Jongin shakes his head. “I mean the general meeting thing. I don’t think it would play well if I’ll be seen with the CEO’s son, which, by the way, you’ve never told me about.”

 

“I think I might have already dropped a hint or two.”

 

“Thing is, Chanyeol, I’m a very stupid person,” Jongin says. “You’d have to give me all the pieces of the puzzle if you want me to figure something out.”

 

“You can’t really know that, can you?” Chanyeol says, but Jongin shakes his head with finality.

 

“Singing and dancing are the only things I know. No matter how much I complain about how my days always suck, and even if I want to quit being an idol, I don’t think I can do anything else.”

 

What Jongin doesn’t say is that Chanyeol had been right all along, that he still likes performing, though the stardom life is not what he had envisioned for himself.

 

But he’s not just Jongin anymore. He’s Kai, and to the fans, to the company, to his family, he’s a lot more. All in all, is there anything he can do?

 

Jongin releases the bomb all as fast as he could, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can afford being friends with you.”

 

The smile drops for a fraction, but it comes back in half a heartbeat – it comes out all wrong to Jongin, and he restrains himself from stretching across the table to pull up the end of Chanyeol’s lips and hope that it stays there.

 

“I’ll return the coffee mug,” Jongin tells him. “And the albums. I’ll drop it here or have Kyungsoo send it back to you.”

 

Chanyeol shakes his head, holding up a hand as if to stop Jongin from going any further. “Nah, keep it. I bought it for you, anyway. I’ve never been into dance.”

 

With much effort, Jongin stands, offering a handshake. “I still think you’re a perverted ass,” he tries to joke. “But it was nice meeting you, Park Chanyeol.”

 

“Ahh, yes. Right. Even though this friendship is very short-lived,” Chanyeol grins wider this time. “And even if I still think you’re a conceited jerk with a world-class rack, it was also nice meeting you, Kim Jongin.”

 

Chanyeol’s hand is smooth and warm and fitting around his; Jongin’s smile fades, and he wonders if he’d really stretched the chasm far enough so they could never meet again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time Jongin sees him—because of course there’s a next time—he’s wearing honey-brown overalls and no glasses. He’s holding a mop and a half-empty can of aerosol. Jongin thinks it’s silly that, no matter how much Chanyeol tries to blend in, he always manages to stick out like a misshapen nail out of a plank.

 

They’re at the tail end of the International Junior Art Festival2 in Gangneung. Jongin is an appointed ambassador, so his attendance is somewhat mandatory. _Somewhat mandatory_ , he thinks with chagrin, because he knows Chanyeol, who lives and breathes on whatever he thinks is art, is there.

 

 _But I’m not here for Chanyeol hyung_ , he asserts to himself. This is _official_ idol business. This is about art in its rawest form – about promoting kids to like art. This isn’t about some dork who likes playing I-Spy-The-Next-Greatest-Artist-in-The-World.

 

 

He’s not sure whether he’s surprised that he’s managed to stay away from Chanyeol completely for two whole months, or that even until now, he instinctively knows where Chanyeol would be hanging around for the duration of the night (which would be the exhibit of the tallest structure of pens held together by scotch tape, modeled by a fifteen-year-old who had way too much time on his hands).

 

In order for him not to exacerbate anything, Jongin avoids meeting him in the eye and instead scurries towards where Kyungsoo and Junmyeon said they would be. The hallway is so narrow that when he walks past him, their hands brush together. Not that much, but just enough.

 

Jongin struggles to keep his breathing even when he looks back. Chanyeol, dressed in janitor’s clothes, is no longer in sight.

 

Jongin spots the two at a stand where the kids are selling charm bracelets for 500 ₩. Kyungsoo picks out a navy blue one while Junmyeon a red one, and they both smile serenely at the girl when Junmyeon tells her to keep the change. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kyungsoo comments when Jongin approaches.

 

“I’m not sure,” Jongin admits, pocketing his hands inside his jeans, and relays to them everything. He feels somewhat relieved when Kyungsoo’s stare is no longer admonishing, just concerned.

 

Junmyeon hums. “I’ve always pegged Chanyeol to be the audacious one of the two Park brothers. He never really changed, hasn’t he?”

 

Jongin’s jaw drops. “You know them both?”

 

“His hyung and I were classmates at one time in elementary,” Junmyeon narrates. “And I’ve met Chanyeol the first time Jaeyeol invited me to play basketball in their mansion. But I don’t know him that well. He was friendlier to strangers than his hyung, but Chanyeol had always wanted to separate himself from his family. So most of the time when I do visit, he’s not there. Why? Is he your friend?”

 

Jongin feels something odd stirring in his stomach, but he lets it die down.

 

“What are you going to do,” Kyungsoo asks, “if this happens again? Whether he’s our boss’s son or not, if you see him and he sees you, what are you going to do?”

 

His phone buzzes, and Jongin opens the text message. He checks on the ID thrice to see if he read it wrong.

 

_I think I like you more in casual wear than in suits ;)_

 

The heat instantly creeps into his face as soon as another text message arrives, saying:

_Oh, right, This is Chanyeol hyung, btw. I remember you telling me you never save anyone’s  number :P_

 

That one had been a lie. Jongin _almost_ always never saves other people’s number on his phone, except –

 

“I don’t know, hyung,” Jongin responds as he busies himself with stashing his phone somewhere in the deepest part of his pants pocket. It’s strange that it’s the most honest thing he’s said in a long time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things happen when they are least expected most of the time, and the slew of events has Jongin tittering around the edges: the first shadow of it lands when Park Jaeyeol’s car swerves right along the slippery Olympic-daero in Magok-dong and smashes on a concrete fence on his way home. Snowy Christmases on the east side of Seoul are known to cause terror, and it’s no less a drunken accident than it is the local unit’s mistake. Consequently, like the way the first crack spreads rapidly on thin ice, it seems that Park Moonsik’s will to live has shattered along with his favorite son’s ribcage.

 

So the manhunt for the youngest Park begins, who disappears from his hospital of residence as soon as the incident hit the news.

 

Morning papers are all about the rapid stock drop for SM Entertainment in the first week, and headlines about the elusive second son starts appearing from the second week onwards. Jongin reads about it as much as he can in between drives to music shows and the next, until Kyungsoo gets a little miffed one day and confiscates Jongin’s tablet and phone all together.

 

“I care about what happens to the company! It’s my future on the line!” Jongin argues in his ratty-tatty pajamas, reaching out for his phone, but Kyungsoo immediately slaps his hand away.

 

“No, you care about one person in particular, and his name is right here.” Kyungsoo points to the headline zoomed in on Jongin’s phone: _Who is Park Chanyeol? Will He Save His Father’s Company From Its Doom?_ “Obsess about him later, Jongin. You have a Q  & A three hours from now—get dressed or I’ll stab you."

 

Jongin sashays back and forth through numerous radio and television appearances, sometimes hosting and other times guesting. One moment a blank-faced zombie, a dazzling Kai the next. He suspects SM is using him as a smokescreen while the company picks up all the fallen twigs and rebuilds the foundations—there’s a not-so-secret bickering amongst the board over who gets to take over the CFO position Jaeyeol left behind, and with Moonsik bleary-eyed and unresponsive, the person who gets to interim will probably ascend to something more.

 

(“We’re sitting ducks here!” Jongin heard the head of payroll slam his foot on the floor once in a sector meeting. “They have to make a decision fast or it’s abandon ship!”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s New Year’s when Jongin meets Chanyeol again. His schedule is clear for the day, and so the idol is off to the rooftop where he’d get the best view of all the wonderful colors fireworks can offer. He takes the elevator—and when it dings open, Chanyeol is there, hair gelled and dressed in a well-pressed suit, clearly uncomfortable.

 

Chanyeol’s eyes widen at first, but then the smile Jongin knows so well surfaces. He scoots to the side and presses the _hold_ button. “There’s still some space. If you want, I mean.”

 

Jongin would just look stupid standing there, so he acquiesces, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’.

The ride upwards is quiet. Jongin’s embarrassed that he feels embarrassed; it’s not like they broke up or something, since there weren’t even remotely in a relationship and he’s not even sure if he likes—Jongin has to stop his train of thought there, when Chanyeol presses a hand on his arm.

 

“You haven’t pressed your floor yet,” Chanyeol informs him, pointing at the dashboard.

 

Jongin realizes in horror that Chanyeol is going to the rooftop too.

 

“Umm… we’re actually going to the same floor,” he admits quietly, and Chanyeol beams at this.

 

They arrive to the rooftop a few seconds later. Chanyeol immediately flies to where the vines start traversing the metal railings with soft, green tendrils. Jongin shimmies to the safer end. The winter air whiplashes on Jongin’s face, his lips cracking in response, and he recoils and seeks the warmth of his coat.

 

“I never got to ask you this,” Chanyeol starts, turning to look at him. “But the albums I gave you. How was it?”

 

“They’re my favorite, actually. It kind of made me rethink of where I was going. Reminded myself why I started training in the first place,” Jongin replies, blushing. “Thank you, Chanyeol hyung.”

 

Chanyeol nods approvingly, grinning. “I’m really glad it helped you.”

 

“That was unnecessary, though. You shouldn’t have gotten me anything at all.”

 

“Nonsense! I like you a lot, Jongin-ah, so you really shouldn’t think that you’re burdening me, because you aren’t at all.”

 

Jongin shivers, but it’s not from the cold. “Hyung,” he steels his voice. “Why are you here?”

 

He hears a sigh from the older man, and sees Chanyeol fiddling with his fingers, his happy expression gone and looking lost for the first time.

 

“This company my father built,” he utters slowly, “I’m not—I don’t want it but it’s—” Chanyeol stops there, and he looks straight ahead, avoiding Jongin’s probing gaze.

 

“Positions are inherited here, I know,” Jongin says. “Like some fucked up feudalism in the modern world.”

 

“Yeah, fucked up,” Chanyeol chokes. “Came here to the rooftop to clear my head for a while. I want to know if I’m making the right decision.”

 

And Jongin realizes that Park Chanyeol is, and perhaps has always been, much braver than he ever is, so he takes a small leap and takes Chanyeol’s hand, squeezing it tight.

 

“I don’t think I’m the best person to say this, but hyung, as long as every part of your body says it’s right, then it’s fine. But if you really don’t want to do it, it’s fine too. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to disguise yourself and slip into high-profile art auctions anymore if you do.” At this, Chanyeol chuckles a little, and Jongin’s heart grows light.

 

“You do know that if I start working here, we’ll be bumping into each other more often, right?” Chanyeol says unsurely, squeezing Jongin’s hand back, almost like he’s asking for the younger’s permission.

 

Jongin tries to laugh. “And you’ll be signing my paychecks too. Indirectly of course, but your signature will definitely be on the monogram.”

 

“I’ve been following all your shows ever since we met, you know. I say you could definitely use a raise.”

 

“So you _are_ going to do it?”

 

“I don’t know. I guess that depends.” Chanyeol looks at him, sulking for the tiniest bit. “Are you still going to avoid me after this, Jongin? Is it really about protecting your image or— or is it just me?”

 

“What? No, hyung! It’s not you, it’s—” and Jongin makes the mistake of looking at Chanyeol’s deceptively luscious lips, highlighted by the glow of the moonlight above and the streetlights below, and _no, hyung, it’s_ —

Chanyeol’s grip eases to wrap around Jongin’s wrist, and he tugs a little. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I promise I’ll try to make things work so we can be friends again,” Chanyeol says, and all of a sudden Kris’s words bombard Jongin’s ears.

 

_“Oh yeah, one more thing,” Kris had told him when Jongin was about to leave, with Kyungsoo’s car keys fitted tight in his hand._

_Jongin turned, and he knew even then that he would never forget the look on Kris’s face, full of sadness and a little warning. “The symptoms usually start when you feel like running away,” Kris said. “The next thing you know, he’ll be everywhere.”_

He then hears an explosion—from the blast of the first firecracker or from the implosion of his thudding heart, he doesn’t know—but he also hears himself say “Hyung, I’m not going to avoid you” before he thinks it through.

 

It’s a nice view from up here, Jongin thinks—Chanyeol’s smiling face surrounded by billions of flickering light behind him. It’s a screenshot of heaven with a dash of irony, and maybe a little bit of pain too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stocks stabilize by the fifth week after Chanyeol sells himself to the devil, and the Finance Department sighs in relief. The worst is over, until some scandal comes along (which everyone dearly hopes won’t come in a long while).

 

‘Bumping into each other’ is the understatement of the new year—except when he’s on tour overseas, there’s not a day Jongin doesn’t see Chanyeol lounging near his studio or knocking on his door with a bag full of lo mein.

 

“Are you sure you’re even the CFO?” Jongin grills as he searches for the chopsticks stashed somewhere at the bottom of the paper bag. “Are you just a figurehead or what?”

 

Chanyeol shrugs. “I attend board meetings and remember names of all the whodunits in the industry. Mostly I just sign papers. A lot of them. But I read through it, and my secretary Minyoung reads through it, so yeah. It’s not my brand of paradise, but I guess it’s okay.”

 

Jongin tries not to notice the way the stray noodle perches on top of Chanyeol’s upper lip before he slurps it in, or to imagine what Chanyeol’s mouth can do when it’s _not_ full of minced pork and spicy Chinese noodles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time spring starts Jongin has already released a new mini-album. It snags every top spot there is that needs filling, and Jongin immediately rises from ‘rookie’ to a successful artist on his own right. One year into his debut and he’s already won five end of the year music awards, and seven music show triple crowns. _Music Slam!_ even published an article about Kai being one of the most influential celebrities in Korea, probably in the whole of Asia as well. Jongin gags.

 

The stress of running to and fro projects without getting any sleep is making him slightly unhinged —and he would’ve turned back to his previously self-destructive demeanor (i.e.: flirting with the PD noonas, drinking soju five minutes before show time) if it weren’t for Chanyeol, who keeps on making dumb Spock faces to make him laugh when he feels like flashing his middle finger on national television, who keeps him on the ground when his soul starts drifting off somewhere, and who tells him with a smile, _‘Wow, Jongin-ah. How can you look like shit but still be amazing?’_

He’s starting to believe his bad boy image has crumbled long ago, and he wonders whether it shows enough for the fans to notice.

Of course Kyungsoo notices immediately, and when he catches a snoring Chanyeol splayed on the dorm living room without his shirt on and his hair wet and dripping like he’s just showered, he snaps. He takes Jongin by the arm the next day, locking them inside a dressing room.

 

“You do know the situation has gotten worse, right?” Kyungsoo questions with a level tone. Jongin feels his tail swishing in between his legs.

 

“It’s all up to you now,” he tells him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

“Hyung, if you want to quit, you can always—”

 

“Forget what I said, Jongin,” Kyungsoo snaps, and then he sighs heavily, resigned. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You haven’t changed your bed sheets this week,” is the first thing Chanyeol says when he steps into Jongin’s dorm one day. The young CFO turns around and stares at him, hand flying to smack Jongin on the head lightly. “Slob.”

 

“Sorry, I’ve been busy with you-know-what,” Jongin admits, and he can immediately tell that Chanyeol doesn’t really care about the mess. He supposes that Chanyeol just likes to point out how much he’s been dropping in and out of Jongin’s abode.

 

He drapes his coat on the empty hanger and rolls up his long sleeves while approaching the bed. “Come on, then.” Chanyeol gestures at him. 

 

“Coming, coming,” Jongin drawls as he watches Chanyeol grab a fistful of cloth. He trails after him, silently disappointed that dinner will have to wait for a while longer. With much tutoring on Kyungsoo’s part the week before, Jongin had been planning to cook Chanyeol’s favorite type of fish and everything else. What better way to celebrate a Friday night to themselves?

 

Chanyeol makes short work of the old bed sheets. As Jongin gathers them up to send to the laundry tomorrow morning, Chanyeol’s already rummaging through the drawers on the other side of the room. He picks a pattern, holding up a handful to show him.

 

“This one?” the man asks. Jongin nods compliantly.

 

He’s still folding the sheets as Chanyeol takes out the new covers and throws them over the bed.

 

“You’re very fast,” Jongin observes in awe.

 

“No, this bed is just tiny.”

 

“Hey. Absolutely no jabs about the bed, Chanyeol hyung.”

 

Chanyeol finishes fitting the yellow-colored bed sheets at the corners and gets off the bed. He doesn’t spare himself a break, and as Jongin watches him walk past, he sees that his next destination is the kitchen. Moments after he disappears out of sight, Jongin hears the fridge opening.

 

“There aren’t enough vegetables here!” he calls out.

 

Jongin thinks: if there is such a thing as being too responsible for someone else, Chanyeol has it. Bad. He remembers how he fusses about Kai’s music shows, how he almost rivals Kyungsoo in efficiency when it comes to getting him to eat at least three meals a day, and how Chanyeol always serenades him with his favorite songs whenever the other feels down.

 

But, if Chanyeol really has been going through great lengths just to make him happy, is it just another way of saying Jongin isn’t happy enough?

 

Jongin shakes his head, muttering, “What am I doing?”  

 

He finishes piling the old bed sheets to one side of the room and trudges into the kitchen to prepare dinner. It’s been awhile since they could have a meal together, what with Jongin’s erratic schedule and Chanyeol’s meetings.

 

 “I didn’t know you cook,” Chanyeol says as he slides beside him. He doesn’t even budge in order to grab a pan hanging overhead—he hands it to Jongin quickly.

 

“I’m okay,” Jongin shrugs. He remembers Kyungsoo flashing him an odd stare when he asked to teach him how to cook out of nowhere, and he looks down, embarrassed. “I’m not that good, but there’s no need to help with cooking. You’ve already shown me that you can cook gourmet meals out of Campbell’s soup, hyung, so let me prove myself this time.”

 

Chanyeol laughs. “Hoho. I like this challenge, Jonginnie. But at least let me make one dish. I feel like eating curry today, and I’m hella sure I make it better than you,” he winks.

 

Under the running tap, Chanyeol washes his hands before drying them on the cloth by the sink. The afterimage remains in Jongin’s mind—the man’s enourmous hands, rinsed and ready to begin work. It makes him think about a hot afternoon at the children’s park, him distantly shouting for Chanyeol to stop spinning him madly at the merry-go-round. He remembers Chanyeol’s head thrown back in laughter, his hair bouncing up and down with the same palpable glee. Chanyeol looked exceptionally handsome that day.

 

“Are you okay, Jongin? Why is your face red?”

 

Jongin blushes harder, but manages to roll his eyes. “It’s the heat from the pan,” he mutters, flicking Chanyeol’s arm lightly.

 

When the frying pan clunks against the stove, Jongin stops reminiscing and concentrates on the present. He spares a look at Chanyeol as he washes the vegetables, and he sees a certain focus in his eyes, the exact same one he has whenever he plays his guitar. It’s heartening.    

 

It’s true that the flavor of his curry is much better than Jongin’s could ever be. “See, told you,” Chanyeol smirks, and Jongin lets him.

 

With two of them occupying the kitchen, the space to move around is smaller than usual. They bump elbows and Chanyeol has to move out of the way as Jongin retrieves the cooking oil, amongst other things, from the cupboard at his feet. Chanyeol nearly bangs into him when Jongin turns around, reaching for the fridge.

 

He makes a short, contemplative noise as Jongin lurches back. “I should ask Dad to move you to a bigger place.”

 

Jongin gives him a perplexed expression. “Why?”

 

“It’s not like it’s permanent but—” Chanyeol pauses, his brow knotting as he searches for what he wants to say.

 

As he checks on the fish, Jongin nods at him to continue. 

 

“I’ve already told you before, there’s a swell place near the new SM building too, and I heard it’s rather spacious—oh damn, the curry!” Chanyeol interrupts himself when he notices the lid over the pan of curry trembling.

 

Jongin can’t help but laugh as the elder lowers the flame and blows anxiously over the curry, urging it to simmer. 

 

“What I’m trying to say is…” is what Chanyeol says when he gets back, and then tapering off again, glancing at the ceiling. He looks up to him briefly before diverting his attention to the curry.  Jongin doesn’t think he’s going to finish—most of the time, there’s always an extra thought that cuts through Chanyeol’s sentences—but Jongin more or less knows what Chanyeol’s trying to tell him.

 

“Thanks, hyung, but I think this dorm is okay.”

 

Chanyeol looks unimpressed. “I don’t actually like playing this card but you have _me_ —devilishly attractive, insanely rich Park Chanyeol—as your best friend _and_ boss. I actually read the suggestion box once and a while. Let me hear thy complaints.”

 

 Jongin mock scowls. “Well for one, you need an ego check. And you seriously have to stop dragging me to every art auction in Seoul whenever you feel like making my life even more difficult. But for the dorm, as cramped as it’s getting, I actually like the place.”

 

“Really? Huh,” the other remarks, twirling the spoon between his fingers like a miniature baton. “That’s odd. I thought you hated small places.”

 

“This is a manageable kind of small. Not like your Dad and his cronies would be up to pay for the extra hundred thousand won, anyway,” Jongin amends.

 

“Like I said: you have me.”

 

“Not taking any chances, hyung. Once I owe you a favor I’ll probably never hear the end of it.”

 

Chanyeol laughs out loud, delighted. “But, well, what do you like about this place, anyway?”

 

Jongin likes this place with the simmering curry, with the ceiling light that’s fine on most nights, with the hooks on the top of the walls and the shelf filled to the brim with books that Jongin reads in between passages of sleeping and waking.

 

Most of all, he likes the dorm because Chanyeol’s place is close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongin meets her for the first time in the elevator.

 

She is pretty, more beautiful than what the magazines and the news articles had depicted. With her bright, hazel eyes, soft wavy hair and flowing Sunday dress, Jongin inwardly thinks that all of the pictures he’d ever seen of her had been way off the mark.

 

She pushes the button with a delicate, lacquered finger. “I’m on the fourteenth,” she chirps as she turns to Jongin. “What floor will you be going?”

 

“Eight,” Jongin lies, his eyes darting nervously.

 

The girl hums in answer, pushing the number _8_ on the dashboard. She smiles at him shyly and says, “I’m a big fan of yours. Really.”

 

“Um, thank you.”

 

“My fiancé is a fan of yours too,” she says conversationally, her eyes sparkling. “I took him to a concert of yours on our first date, actually. He told me he loved your music.”

 

Jongin nods, hoping his answering grin isn’t as stiff as he felt. “I never knew I had a male fan. I’m very grateful.”

 

The woman chuckles sweetly, then says, “Can I get your autograph? He’d be ecstatic—”

 

“Oh, it’s my floor!” Jongin yelps hastily. “I’m so sorry—my manager’s been looking for me all day, and I can only imagine all the things he’s going to—”

 

“It’s fine.” She waves as the elevator dings to an open. She bows slightly. “It’s really nice to meet you, Kai-ssi.”

 

“Likewise.” He bows slightly, and steps out of the elevator. The steel doors clamp shut.

 

Jongin sighs, and after a minute, presses the Up button.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol thinks it’s a good idea to celebrate Jongin’s fifth win for his title track _Overdose;_ Jongin protests all the way to the art museum, but it inevitably falls on deaf ears.

 

Jongin’s hair is dyed a dusty blond and Chanyeol’s a dark red. Dressed like a walking New York Nets franchise, Jongin ducks his head as he bows to the guard on duty as he shows his fake ID. The man looks at him suspiciously but lets him through when the line behind them starts getting longer.

 

The much more confident Chanyeol gets in without a hitch, and Jongin curses at him.

 

 “What now, Rothko?” Jongin sighs.  “That guy’s probably gonna alert surveillance now. Let’s drop this before we get caught—”

 

“We won’t, trust me.” Chanyeol grabs his hand, and Jongin gets dragged along the array of sculptures and paintings of men and women dressed only in leaves or scanty pieces of cloth. His ears flush with a tinge of pink as Chanyeol leads him to a restricted area down the basement. They cross over the chains and take the stairs.

 

“This is where they keep the paintings NGA and J. Paul Getty would be exhibiting here tomorrow.” Chanyeol’s eyes are gleaming even in the dark. His breath is hot on Jongin’s ear as he whispers. “Won’t it be great if we got to see it before the general public does?”

 

“I don’t actually see the draw,” Jongin responds dryly. “Jesus, hyung, what if we get caught—”

 

Chanyeol clamps a hand on Jongin’s mouth, leaning so close that the younger’s hands grow damp. “This is me blocking all the negative vibes,” he says with a grin. “You signed in to this mission, soldier. There are no take backs.”

 

“Signed in? What the—”

 

“Sshh! I’m doing this for you, you know.” And much to Jongin’s astonishment, Chanyeol takes out a set of keys, and one of them perfectly slides inside the hole of the steel gates.

 

“You have keys to the basement?” Jongin hisses.

 

“My friend Sehun works here as a curator,” Chanyeol half hisses. “I took duplicates when he’s not looking. Now stop looking at me like I just murdered somebody and let’s go. I want to show you something.”

 

The younger man exhales in frustration, as Chanyeol takes his hand once more and leads him to a dimly lit room with a ceiling Jongin can only hope to reach with his palms outstretched.

 

Chanyeol turns up the lights without warning, and the sudden flash of white blinds him momentarily. He waits until his pupils adjust to the change, and from the corner of his eye he sees Chanyeol watching him carefully as Jongin’s jaw drops.

 

“You like it?” Chanyeol asks, and laughs when Jongin can only nod.

 

Huge artworks are posted across grey-white primeval walls, and sculptures of gods and goddesses and people at war line up the far end of the isle. There are pithos, spears, and ivory-white plates preserved in wooden crates with stacks of hay. It’s the largest collection of all the beautiful things Jongin has seen in one, secluded chamber made out of marble.

 

Chanyeol’s hand slips to the small of his back, and it burns as Chanyeol slides him to a relatively smaller painting. “This is my favorite,” Chanyeol mutters to his ear.

 

There are drips of dark gray, and long splashes of black, peach, silver, combined with small hints of blue and white sprayed erratically across the unframed canvass. It’s not bright or sad or calm or angry—in fact, Jongin feels nothing, sees nothing but a bunch of all his least favorite colors spilled to cover the spaces. It says _Number 1; J. Pollock; 1950._

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Jongin stares at him incredulously, and Chanyeol chortles. “Yeah, you heard me right,” he tells him cheerfully, and Jongin can’t help but feel shortchanged.

 

“That’s just a fucking waste of paint, then,” Jongin decides.

 

“The more I look at it,” Chanyeol starts again when his laughter dies down. “I suspect Pollock never really had something in his mind. Just slathered his brush one moment, and then dripped a huge blob of enamel when he suddenly feels like it.” In a fraction of a second, he’s leaning close again, and Jongin can feel the warmth of Chanyeol’s body soaking through his oversized shirt. “But do you see that fish over there?”

 

“H-huh?” Jongin struggles to keep himself upright as Chanyeol’s cologne assault his nostrils. He squints, trying to make sense of the chaos of colors in front of him. “I don’t actually—” and then he sees it; at the very center there’s an outline of something like an angelfish. Or is it a goldfish? “Oh, wait a second! I see it!”

 

“Quick! I see a flower; tell me where it is!”

 

And before Jongin’s very eyes the colors morph themselves into a warped kind of poppy, with dots of peach-colored begonias littering around it.

 

“There, right there!” He points to the center again. “That’s amazing, hyung. But how does that—”

 

“You see what you want to see. In art, it’s not a mistake,” Chanyeol says, his voice much, much lower.

 

Jongin makes a blunder of his own when he turns to ask him what he meant. Chanyeol’s eyes are dark, pulling him in instead of skulking away.  Chanyeol has never looked at him in that way before, never allowed himself to think that—or at least maybe—

 

The older then places a hand on his waist, and Jongin’s senses shift into overdrive.

 

He sees the red blood whoosh underneath Chanyeol’s porcelain skin as the latter’s cheeks start to redden, the dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks, beautiful like a delicate paint brush bristle. Jongin’s heartbeat doesn’t sound like his own anymore. It thunders through his chest many times as he inhales a mixture of bitter and sweet.

 

“I—” Jongin starts..

They’re so close now. He knows that the half of Chanyeol’s body pressed to him will be imprinted on him forever. It’s the warmth of Chanyeol’s breath, that then becomes the warmth of Chanyeol’s mouth, are the very things he never knew he could want, and it makes everything else, makes everything else in that instant slip away.

 

Jongin’s lips are trembling when Chanyeol cups his face in his hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stagger inside the old closet in the basement. In the darkness, Jongin can make out a broomstick, a mop, and some heavy-duty floor polishers – he manages to avoid tripping his foot into every single one of them as Chanyeol bites onto his lower lip.

 

He sees Chanyeol close his eyes as the back of his knees presses onto the door jamb, and Chanyeol yanks Jongin up to kiss him deeper. They end up rutting along the side of the wall, and Jongin’s tongue skirts on the slant of Chanyeol’s shoulder, as if to savor his warmth, the pulse thudding on the thin skin–

 

When Chanyeol’s hand starts tugging on the hem of his Nets shirt, something dawns on Jongin – he freezes.

 

“S-stop,” Jongin breathes through the skin on Chanyeol’s neck. “Stop, hyung –Chanyeol hyung – ”

 

Chanyeol pulls back with a start, a worried look flashing through his face. Jongin sees the elder’s lips red and plump and sore, and it takes all of his willpower not to pull Chanyeol down and kiss him.

 

They stare at each other for a few minutes, listening to their pants echoing inside the broom closet. Jongin isn’t sure if he sees hurt or anger swimming in Chanyeol’s eyes – maybe it’s both.

 

“I’m –“ Jongin tries to explain, but Chanyeol immediately removes his hand on Jongin’s waist. He untangles himself from the idol and pulls on the doorknob to leave.

 

“Hyung! Chanyeol, wait!” Jongin cries, and it echoes almost sadly along the basement. “Chanyeol, listen to me – “

 

“What is it that you _want_ from me, exactly?” Chanyeol is the one who shouts this time, and it’s the first time Jongin has ever heard him raise his voice, amplified by the marble-granite walls of the museum. He turns his body to face him, but not all the way. “What am I to you, Jongin? Who am I to you?”

 

“You’re my friend, but you’re also much more than that,” Jongin pleads, balling his fists to stop himself from screaming. “Please, I don’t want to ruin this –“

 

“I’m your friend,” Chanyeol repeats, but it sounds like a swearword slipping from his lips. “Yes, you’re right. I’m your best friend. I do get it now.”

 

“Please, Chanyeol, don’t go –“

 

“Not until you promise that this wouldn’t be the last time.”

 

Jongin can’t reply. Chanyeol’s eyes are hopeful and glistening wet, and it’s too unbearable to look at. It’s almost midnight and he’s sure the museum is about to close and Chanyeol, Chanyeol is just too much for him.

 

When Jongin doesn’t speak, Chanyeol just laughs. It sounds sickening to Jongin’s ears, like steel bars grating ferociously on one another.

 

It’s the first time Chanyeol has ever turned his back on Jongin. “See you whenever, friend.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first clue that something is amiss in Park Chanyeol’s tidy apartment is a pair of mournful brown eyes.

 

The eyes—set in an angular, apple-cheeked face, framed by a tumble of soft, reddish hair—are peeking at him over the far end of the green-and-white Formica table. They watch Jongin, with indescribable silence, as he takes a seat next to him in the couch.

 

Jongin doesn’t say anything, but continues eyeing that same piece of artwork Chanyeol had bought during the auction last year.

 

“Kim Jongin,” Chanyeol says in a low, sad tone: a full name means business.

 

Jongin turns to look at him, wary. The memory of Chanyeol’s lips on his still burns on the forefront of his mind.

 

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol continues, murmuring. His right hand seeks the warmth of Jongin’s—but then the younger sees the gold band on Chanyeol’s ring finger, and Jongin visibly blanches, pulling away.

 

Jongin sighs. He was clearly the one at fault, and again Chanyeol takes it upon himself to shoulder all the blame. Of course. “What are you apologizing for, hyung?”

 

“Everything. Everything that has happened and will happen. I thought about last night, and everything that you’ve said before… maybe you were right.”

 

Jongin had already seen it coming, but that doesn’t mean it hurt any less than it’s supposed to: the awful stirring at the pit of his stomach makes his eyes water involuntarily. “I told you so,” he grins tightly.  “Bet you want to turn everything back around, huh?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t you wish that you’ve never met me in the first place—”

 

“Is that what _you_ think?” Chanyeol’s eyes flash in a way Jongin had never seen before. “That it would’ve been fine—just dandy—if I hadn’t approached you that night? That we would’ve been better off if I never sent you that god forsaken mug, never sought out your friendship?”

 

 “I was miserable and alone, but that was normal,” Jongin replies. “I make money on it, hyung, the depression. I sell my fucked-up life to anyone who’s anyone who wants to see me burn. But then you showed up and—and…”

 

Chanyeol turns silent, the light in his eyes dimming. Jongin feels something disgusting roll in his mouth, like the aftertaste of bitter gourd—the guilt doesn’t surprise him, but he can’t take back everything he said.

 

“I…” And then Chanyeol laughs, manically, hiccupping in between bouts. “You’re right.” He smiles too widely. “I did ruin everything. I always ruin everything.”

 

“Hyung, I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that…”

 

Chanyeol holds up a hand. “I get it, Jongin-ah,” he says. “I understand. The problem has always been with me, anyway. But—even after everything, I don’t regret every single moment I spent with you. I’ve always, _always_ held you above every person in my life, Jongin. You’re special. I knew it from the moment I met you.

 

“I wasn’t just attracted to you physically,” Chanyeol continues. “I really, _really_ like you, Jongin. For some reason, I thought you felt the same. And that night in the museum, when I kissed you, and you kissed me back… Or was it just me—seeing all those things?”

 

Jongin opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t speak.

 

 “I know you regret getting entangled with me,” he says meekly, avoiding Jongin’s eyes. “But just tell me this one thing, and I promise I won’t ever bother you again. It’s important.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He draws in a long, deep breath. “Jongin, did I misunderstand?”

 

The idol shakes his head as he lays himself bare, revealing his deepest desire. Jongin replies, croaking, “No, Chanyeol hyung. You weren’t mistaken.”

 

Chanyeol nods. The frown disappears slowly, until a soft smile plays on the elder’s lips. Jongin tucks this image away in his mind, knowing that this momentary burst of happiness will be short-lived.

 

And when Chanyeol kisses him, Jongin knows there’s no turning back from the choice he’s made.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His fingertips caress the skin of Jongin’s wrist lightly, sending an electric current through Jongin’s body. Jongin grabs Chanyeol’s waist and reels him in, pressing his lips hungrily against his. Chanyeol’s hands spread along the span of his back before dipping under the material of his shirt. He touches him gently, and Jongin moans, overcome by the sensation after sensation of Chanyeol’s hot mouth travelling to explore the exposed skin on Jongin’s neck, the hypersensitive spot behind Jongin’s ear.

 

“Jongin,” Chanyeol sighs as he peppers him with kisses, threading his fingers into thick, blonde hair. “Jongin. Jongin.”

 

Jongin swallows the lump in his throat as Chanyeol wrestles with his shirt over his head and presses him on the soft bed of Chanyeol’s apartment.

 

The other unbuttons his pants before shoving it down to his legs. Chanyeol kicks them off as Jongin yanks his shirt off, and hastily, they throw everything else aside.

 

Chanyeol’s fingers gets slick and wet, and it finds its way in between Jongin’s legs, where the latter is already ready and aching for him. He nimbly slips two of his fingers inside of him, scissoring him open, and Jongin whimpers, his back arching as Chanyeol’s fingers pump into him hard and fast. Chanyeol’s palm grinds against his hole, overwhelming him, coaxing him to open. Chanyeol bends his head, and takes Jongin’s hard cock into his mouth, sucking hard.

 

The heat spreads through Jongin and he knows he’s close, but he doesn’t want to end like this – by some surge of courage, he reaches out and grasps for Chanyeol’s throbbing erection. Chanyeol hisses as he strokes him, and he murmurs Jongin’s name when he runs his thumb over the base of his cock.

 

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol gasps. “I’m being selfish—”

 

Jongin swallows his words quick with another kiss. “No, you’re not. I want this too.”

 

Chanyeol pulls away momentarily, his eyes dark with lust, but the pool of sadness seeps through. “Are… are you sure?”

 

Jongin nods. He knows the consequences. This will probably be the first and the last time they’d be together like this.

 

Jongin lowers Chanyeol’s head and kisses him fiercely, darkly, and with his other hand, guides him towards his entrance.

 

Chanyeol enters him with one stroke, and they both moan gutturally at the feeling. Jongin is so full so fast that it makes him tear up a little, but it fades away into pleasure as Chanyeol begins to thrust into him, the need apparent with each heady stroke.

 

“Harder, harder,” Jongin whispers. His head is lolled back in a deep haze of pleasure. “I need to feel you – I don’t ever want to forget.”

 

Chanyeol nods, understanding, plunging even deeper into him. Jongin’s hips move in sync, meeting his every rut, and he presses himself against Chanyeol fully, wanting to feel every tense of muscle on his body.

 

Chanyeol’s hands are going to leave purple marks on his thighs, his hips, but Jongin ferociously digs his nails onto Chanyeol’s broad shoulders, biting on the skin of his neck and trying to leave a part of himself there.

 

The pleasure builds until they’ve reached, and Jongin’s vision darkens as Chanyeol thrusts against his prostrate. He gasps when he does it again, and again, and again, and he throws his head back as the waves of his orgasm crash over him. He shudders in Chanyeol’s embrace as he continues to ride him, drawing out his own until there’s a liquid hot pool inside of Jongin, as Chanyeol comes with a muffled moan.

 

Jongin kisses him as Chanyeol slackens his pace, his arms winding around his chest, and Jongin pretends that Chanyeol’s whispering his name against his mouth doesn’t hurt worse than anything he’s ever experienced.

 

They lie still on the bed, legs sprawled together, sweaty and spent. For a short while, they’re not an idol and a CFO breaking all the rules—they’re Jongin and Chanyeol, and nothing else matters.

 

Chanyeol pulls him in an embrace, and Jongin thinks this is probably all that he’d get.

 

“I hate this,” Jongin confesses. “I hate this so much.”

 

“Me too,” Chanyeol sighs, his voice cracking. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”

 

No amount of apology would be able to turn back time, so instead, Jongin holds him close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The curtains are drawn when Jongin wakes up.

 

There’s no sign of Chanyeol anywhere in the apartment. No strewn clothing on the floor from their late-night activities, no open-toed shoes huddling by the doorstep, no post it’s with silly messages; nothing. Jongin touches the other side of the bed. It’s not warm at all.

 

Oddly, Jongin feels calm as he dials Chanyeol’s number on his phone, even if it rings about seven times and Chanyeol doesn’t pick up. Even when he dials again and, this time, the call gets forwarded to Chanyeol’s secretary, Minyoung.

 

“I’m so sorry, Kai-ssi,” Minyoung tells him, both soothing and professional, and Jongin knows she won’t be answering any further questions. “But Mr. Park is on a very important budget meeting with the rest of finance. I’ll let him know you called.”

 

“Um. No, actually. Don’t tell him I called.”

 

“Is that so? Alright.”

 

Jongin thanks Minyoung, apologizes for the intrusion, and ends the call with a tired, trembling sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I slept with Chanyeol.”

 

Kris furls and unfurls his fingers on the rounded base of his tea cup, frowning. Jongin can see Kris’ ears turn pinkish, but doesn’t comment on it. Kris grunts, “Did you call me here to celebrate then?”

 

Jongin chuckles flatly. “I wish I could say that. What we did… it just made things extremely more difficult than it ever was.”

 

“You like him,” Kris nods. “And you know now that he likes you too. By some twisted logic, this isn’t going to end well—how?”

 

Jongin slips him a newspaper cut-out that had been jammed inside his coat pocket for weeks. The waitress slides by, and deftly manages to refill the tea cups with a new brew of an Okinawa special without blocking Jongin from watching Kris’s expression morph into shock, then disbelief.

 

“Did his father put the ring on the finger?”

 

“Most likely.”

 

Kris gazes ahead to the ceiling. “Chanyeol. Engaged. Wow,” he sighs ruefully as he pours a dab of honey to his drink. “Judging from the date on the article here, it’s been announced by SM a month ago. So you knew? You knew and you still slept with him?”

 

Kris’s tone wasn’t exactly reproving, but Jongin looks down in shame.

 

 

 

_A media outlet had been the first one to break the ice, and Jongin remembers knocking down a water delivery boy in his mad haste to the top floor, only to find a weary Chanyeol to confirm his worst fears._

_The ever-present and capable Kyungsoo knew, of course, and Jongin realized that the elder’s warnings weren’t out of misgivings or spite towards the CFO._

_“There’s a pattern to all this, and I’ve been working here for more than seven years that it’s just plain silly for me not to notice,” Kyungsoo snorted that day, pouring another shot of soju on Jongin’s empty glass. “For all intents and purposes, Chanyeol is a married man as soon as he promised to run the company on his brother’s behalf. Although he’s obviously not Moonsik’s favorite, the CEO picked another heiress of a cosmetic company as Chanyeol’s wife-to-be. That alone says he’s going to be a permanent fixture in SM, and absolutely off-limits.” He threw Jongin a chiding stare._

_“Chanyeol just laughed it off when I asked him if he loved her,” Jongin said bleakly. The bags under his eyes were big enough to carry a toddler. “He’d only met the Sangmi twice.  He can’t have loved her, hyung. I know it.”_

_Kyungsoo had replied then, “Who ever said that they loved each other?_ Dispatch _doesn’t even acknowledge that they’re dating. Marriage is a union of assets. It’s a game plan, stupid. In this part of the world, you have to learn the most important trick of all: you don’t marry someone out of love. You marry someone out of riches.”_

 

 

 

Jongin taps the rim of his cup with a ceramic teaspoon, letting out bated breath. He turns to Kris and asks, “What do you think I should do now?”

 

Kris shrugs. “I honestly have no clue. I never acted out on my feelings for Chanyeol. Doing nothing is what I do best. But I don’t think the same thing applies to you. Will you be okay with it?”

 

 _It’s not fair_ , a voice resonating from the depths of his heart insists, and the confession bubbles out of him as easy as breathing. “I won’t make it without Chanyeol hyung,” Jongin says as he slowly, resentfully, shakes his head. “I won’t make it. I just can’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, Jongin lies in bed, his eyes wide open. The ceiling looks scary and full of dark shadows and he can’t seem to fall asleep. He feels like he’s five again after accidentally having watched The Exorcist on TV. Everything seems suspiciously like a ghost—ominous, threatening to eat him alive. Uneasily, he pulls the covers up to his chin.

 

After that trip to the museum, Jongin and Chanyeol had made an unspoken pact never to cross paths again inside the company.  

 

It’s not uncommon to fall in love with another man who’s incidentally your boss. It’s also not uncommon, is it, for him to be engaged to someone else just as soon as Jongin had gauged how much his feelings for him had run deep? To have both—Jongin just thinks he’s cursed. _Clichéd, but cursed._

 

If he hadn’t agreed to become an idol, would he be leading a normal life, loving the same way a normal person would?

 

 _It’s not fair_ , Jongin thinks.

 

Sleeping pills is not an option for Jongin in order for him to get a good night’s rest—entertainers of all sorts overdosing on anything and everything are a dime a dozen, and the management had clearly gotten out of its way to prevent such things from happening to their money-makers. So Jongin stays awake until the sun rises to greet him again, and waits for Kyungsoo to come barging in with his schedule set on Kyungsoo’s smartphone.

 

From then on, the dreams—or probably nightmares—begin to come.

 

They start slowly, until they have Jongin turning and trashing on his bed as they entangle into something fierce and unknown. Jongin dreams of Chanyeol, his dopey smile, his trademark spectacles sloping on the bridge of his nose. Lee Sangmi is as pretty as the day he saw her in the elevator, but vicious and conniving. One second, she’s lacing a slim arm on Chanyeol’s waist, and suddenly they’re gone.

 

His mind starts conjuring of other ways he can lose Chanyeol: a car accident, a petty disagreement, fantasy; a mythical creature straight from the thriller novels Jongin reads during breaks, sucking Chanyeol’s blood until the latter’s body is cold, empty, and dry.

 

Jongin can lose Chanyeol in almost every way imaginable, but it would never compare to the pain that is his reality. Such are the power of dreams—potent, but inevitably factitious.

 

Jongin is not a superstitious person. He’s gotten by and knows about that much. He’s been through enough tarot card readings and looked through magical crystals balls all in his line of work and none of them have ever gotten it right.

 

But these dreams, he has to admit that they’re something else. Chanyeol has been a recurring character in each and every episode, and before everything goes askew, Chanyeol always manages to cheer him up when he’s down. He holds Jongin to the ground just like he’s always done, tells him that both Kai and Jongin are equal parts beautiful.

 

Chanyeol makes Jongin’s heart ache.

 

What do they all mean, anyway? The only thing Jongin understands is how impossible it is to overcome the hurdle that’s between them.

 

But when the fourth month wheels in, after waking up from a nightmare of Chanyeol jumping off from the edge of a cliff, he realizes that he has to see Chanyeol again.  Loving a person had never really been a crime. So is loving a person you should never have loved in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their worlds start to collide again in December. The ceilings are adorned with rubberized Christmas balls and styrofoam cherry leaves, and the reserved floor in Platinum is packed with idols, managers, stylists, businessmen, and board members alike. Three of the overseers have already caught a sack full of unnecessarily strong liquor that had been smuggled inside, since everyone is required to go home sober lest they make a fool of themselves and tarnish the company’s name.

 

Jongin twiddles his thumbs as he searches for the Chanyeol among the crowd, which proved to be an easy task. Along with his tall and lean stature, Chanyeol is a magnificent sight in his tuxedo and gelled-up hair—and this scares Jongin for some reason. He forces himself into sitting in the most reclusive part in the function hall, convincing himself that he’s content with just looking at even just an outline of him from afar.

 

“Hi,” a voice from behind him says, and Jongin almost jumps in the air in surprise. He sees Taemin, a friend and a fellow solo-artist who debuted about two years earlier than Jongin, offering him a glass of punch. “Why the long face, Kai?”

 

Jongin gives him what he hopes is not a tight smile. “Oh, sorry. Was just thinking to myself.”

 

“About…?”

 

“Nothing in particular, sunbae.”

 

He doesn’t seem to believe him, and instead gives him a few warm pats on the arm. “You  seem pretty out of it these days. I should describe it as ‘calmer’, I think, compared to that thug-like image you’ve been sporting since debut,” Taemin jokes good-naturedly, chuckling all the way, and Jongin joins along.

 

“I’ve actually grown a little tired of it to be quite honest.”  

 

“I hope nothing bad happened just as you’ve said, but if there’s something, you can always tell me about it. SM has scheduled a comeback for me this June, so we have approximately six months to talk.”

 

Jongin laughs, “That’s really—”

 

“Hey, Jongin-ah. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” There’s a surreptitious tug on his cuffs, and it’s none other than the man he’d been keeping his tabs on for the whole night. Chanyeol’s hair is dyed black again, and Jongin can tell that he’s wearing the contacts he absolutely detests just for the occasion. Yet Chanyeol looks strikingly handsome all the same, especially up close.

 

It’s ridiculous how Jongin thinks all of this under a few seconds.

 

“Oh. Um,” Jongin creaks.

 

He can feel Taemin eyeing them thoughtfully as he bows. “I’m honored to finally meet you, Mr. Park.”

 

Chanyeol laughs but it hitches in the middle, sounding somewhat strained. “Don’t need to be so formal, Taemin-ssi. I feel older all of a sudden.”

 

The sudden spell of silence after is oppressing. Chanyeol makes it a point that he wants to talk with Jongin alone by staring at him pointedly, until Taemin makes a flimsy excuse to leave.

 

When the other man is no longer within earshot, Chanyeol flashes him a tired smile. “Hi.”

 

Jongin gives him a stiff nod. “Hey.”

 

They are in the bleakest part of the function hall—there are no decorations, just a corner stripped of its festive aura. Chanyeol pauses as if he’s drinking in the sight of him, or perhaps that’s just him, drinking in the sight of Chanyeol.

 

“Why are you here?” Jongin asks when he thinks Chanyeol won’t speak. “I thought we were avoiding each other.”

 

“I want to talk to you,” the other says, sounding a bit bashful, like he wasn’t the one who initiated the unspoken rule not to acknowledge each other’s existence.

 

Jongin purses his mouth. “Okay.” He waits, but Chanyeol doesn’t speak again. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it, then closes it once more. It seems that that one night that ended too short and revealed too much had rendered them both speechless and—

 

The idol looks up in surprise as Chanyeol takes hold of his fingers, pulling him closer. “W-what are you doing, hyung?” Jongin stammers, his heart suddenly pounding at the tips of his fingers.

 

Abruptly, Chanyeol starts leading him somewhere. The clacks of his black, one inch heeled shoes are masked by the cacophony of glass clinking together and the sound of men and women yelling their toasts for a merry Christmas. Jongin is so stunned that he almost trips on an uneven patch of carpet in the hallway.

 

“Hyung,” he whispers harshly when they arrive inside an empty bathroom. Jongin knows perfectly well where all this would lead to, and his palms start to sweat under the heat of the tungsten lights.

 

Chanyeol goes inside a stall, pulls Jongin in, and latches the lock.

 

Jongin’s back is against the divider, his pant leg pressed on the edge of the toilet seat. The space is small, cramped, and he can hear himself breathing noisily as his brain yodels frantically in claustrophobia. “Hyung! Chanyeol hyung! What are we—”

 

He makes that same mistake again of looking into Chanyeol’s chocolate brown eyes—suddenly, he’s not Kai anymore, and he’s not Park Moonsik’s second son, engaged to a girl named Sangmi and heir to billions.

 

He’s just Kim Jongin, and he’s just Park Chanyeol.

 

They’re alone, and they’re together.

 

In his mind’s eye, Jongin envisions the fish, the flower, the thousand varieties sprinkled on a barren canvas. He sees another thing: a fine line in the middle of the Pollock’s _Number 1_ , a single crust of yellowish enamel, thin and laughably fragile.

 

Chanyeol squeezes his hand, and the line disappears.

 

Chanyeol presses his lips onto his, and it’s so heartbreakingly familiar that Jongin’s knees almost give in under the weight. Jongin kisses back as fiercely, his hands at the end of Chanyeol’s spine, exploring, and when he nips at Chanyeol’s bottom lip he finds his hair being sifted through by Chanyeol’s long fingers.

 

The edge of the toilet seat presses on his mid-thigh, but he doesn’t care. He’s sinking, drowning right there and then. He can’t believe all his life he’d been missing this, but never knew exactly what it was until now.

 

The moan Jongin elicits when Chanyeol’s lips are on the sensitive part of his neck is both deafening and defining, and his fingers travel down, down to the belt clasped on Chanyeol’s waist—

 

“Sir, I would have to ask you to open the door.” It’s Kyungsoo’s voice, and he can tell that there are a few others with him—only then does Jongin hear the loud bangs, hard and insistent. “Hello? This is SM personnel. Please open the door.”

 

Suddenly, dreadfully, the balloon in Jongin’s chest pops, and Chanyeol leans in to give Jongin one last kiss, before removing his hands on Jongin’s waist to open the door.

 

Junmyeon, Yixing, and a few other faces Jongin recognizes but cannot give a name to are all standing in either shock, fury, or a mixture of both, as they take in Chanyeol and Jongin’s disheveled appearance and swollen lips. Only Kyungsoo looks disappointed. He turns remotely detached in a heartbeat, but his trembling hands give him away.

 

“Mr. Kim,” Kyungsoo orders in an earthy, velvety tone, and Jongin can tell that Kyungsoo is scared. “You’re coming home with me _now_. Mr. Park, I would have to ask you to keep to yourself for the rest of the night and never bother Mr. Kim anymore. As his manager and official guardian, I will do whatever I see fit.”

 

Chanyeol mumbles, “I understand.”

 

“Kyungsoo, please—”

 

“Jongin.” It’s not Mr. Kim anymore, and Kyungsoo gives the young idol a pained look. “I— I gave you all the chances you could. I can’t believe you would do this.”

 

Jongin follows his manager’s lead out of the cubicle, literally a fiend caught red-handed. As he walks away, Chanyeol stalks behind him and gives him one assuring glance. He whispers, “I love you” to his ear like a promise, before walking out of the bathroom.  

 

Both Kyungsoo and Jongin keep up the dignity of looking composed, but the hall is abuzz of sinister murmurs that neither the holiday spirit or the promise of a better year can cajole. Everyone seems to hiss in Jongin’s ears until the limousine arrives.

 

The two board the vehicle in deep silence. Before the chauffer locks the door behind them, Jongin catches sight of Sangmi at the foot of the entrance. She stares after him incomprehensibly, her mouth wide open in surprise, mortification—Jongin couldn’t tell exactly. He doesn’t want to. 

 

Kyungsoo refuses to look at him, and doesn’t ask any questions. In return, Jongin doesn’t talk the whole trip back to the dorm, and when they arrive Jongin confines himself to his room, ardently wishing that he would never have to come out ever again.

 

Jongin hardly cries. The last time he did, it was when he was ten, and one of his dogs had died while he was spending the rest of his day frolicking at a nearby playground. Before that, he had overheard his parents discussing the grounds for a divorce. He was seven, and he thought about his two-year-old sister who’d have to grow up in a broken family.

 

He thinks of Chanyeol, and everything starts leaking out of the edge of his eyes.

 

This time, the tears are for him.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kai quit the idol scene a few weeks before the so-called ‘ _Scandal in Apgujeong’_ burst in the media, and much rapid speculation had made SM’s stocks drop to an all-time low. The company had to remain tight-lipped for three whole months, since their own CFO was also part of the scandal, and in return cannot file a lawsuit against the former idol for incurring damages.

 

True to his word, Chanyeol did not seek out Jongin anymore. Foolishly, Jongin thought it was because the older was waiting for the right time to contact him again. He gave up his phone when he left SM, but his social networking site accounts did not change. One week turned to two, three, until one month turned to two, three. The hopelessness that accompanied the wait crippled Jongin almost to the point of relapsing to his self-destructive idol days.

 

During his days in limbo, he thought about everything he left when he turned his back on SM. He thought of his fans, whom he understood felt betrayed by his actions. There was denial and protection at first, when the news wasn’t confirmed yet. It warmed and pricked Jongin’s heart to see how loyal the fans were at that time. But when the news hit, the utter betrayal the fans proclaimed felt like another stab to his already wounded self.

 

Crippled and wounded—how the mighty has fallen.

 

He also thought of Kyungsoo, whom he also had no news of since he left. The disappointment was palpable during the following days of the incident, but strangely the tension chipped away until Kyungsoo began talking to him again. There was only sadness and regret when they parted ways.

 

Jongin hoped their friendship is reparable—it’s the one silver lining he’s currently holding on to. Perhaps the one thing he can keep after leaving.

 

He thought of his family, whom he hasn’t visited in a while. He called them before the scandal came out, to warn them of the repercussions as much as it was a plea for absolution. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jongin-ah. It’s not wholly your fault,” his mother told him, and it was then and there that Jongin decided it was time to pick up his life and move on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He had once met a man who had told him that he could never really divorce himself from the love of his life: music. And so Kai continues on as an ordinary, anonymous songwriter in a small but prospering music label. The pay is unreasonably small even if one of his works charted to number one. Ironically, Jongin should’ve appreciated his former job more, but at least Jongin gets to return home to his mother and his sister, who welcome him with warm hugs and happy smiles. Jongin never thought he would miss being a son and a brother, but he realizes that he does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A year passes.

 

Jongin learns that Kyungsoo had also quit his managerial job in SM, and is now working as a department head of the Finance and Administration pool, where he can finally put his MBA to good use. Jongin sometimes invites Kyungsoo to his house for dinner, and they joke and laugh about the time they did this and that, not as a manager and an idol to scold and pamper, but as equals.

 

So everything goes back to some semblance of normality—at least until Jongin is all by himself in his studio when he composes, or at night when the shadows return and remind him of that other life he had.

 

Sometimes, the memories make him laugh: he pictures Chanyeol sneaking in and out of an art show, probably sporting a checkered polo shirt and ripped jeans, along with a goatee fit for a Mencius scholar. He would bid millions of won on the most outrageous of masterpieces, perhaps a sculpture made out of scrap metal put together by a glue gun, and everyone would yelp in surprise and wonder about him, and Jongin takes in the comfort that he’s probably the only one, the only one who knows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongin is nursing a cup of hot cocoa in his hands when feels Kyungsoo’s gaze on him, so he swerves to face him.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything, and it only makes him suspicious. “Spit it out, hyung, or I’ll force you to,” Jongin says.

 

“Chocolate,” Kyungsoo points unhelpfully at the general area of his face, before biting into a slice of turkey Jongin’s mother had cooked for them.

 

Jongin smudges his thumb against his chin, but there’s no chocolate.  He doesn’t say anything else after that. Instead, he waits until all the other members of the Kim family had excused themselves from the table to ask his former manager once more. “Why were you looking at me?”

 

Kyungsoo hesitates. He eats the last of his meal before clearing his throat, “Are you happy?”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me,” Kyungsoo says gravely.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Alright, then.”

 

Jongin stares at him dumbly. “… that’s it?”

 

Kyungsoo throws him a look. “What else is there?”

 

“Nothing,” he responds, before standing up and shooing away his mom from the counter. He dumps the rest of the soiled dishes into the sink and slips on a pair of pink, rubber gloves. Kyungsoo slides wordlessly next to him, hands gloved in an instant, and slathers a sponge in dishwashing liquid.

 

It’s a routine of theirs, even back when they were still living together in the dorm. Kyungsoo had always been the one to wash the dishes while Jongin rinses. Sometimes, the nostalgia hits Jongin  squarely in the face when he catches himself thinking about the past, and today is one of them.

 

“Have you heard from Chanyeol?”

 

Jongin snaps his gaze to Kyungsoo a little too quickly for his liking. “What— no, hyung. I haven’t spoken to him since—”

 

He stops there.

 

Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow at him. On his outstretched hand, the Michael Jackson mug that had been emptied of cocoa is now swamped with soap suds. Jongin takes it gingerly, before showering it with cold water from the tap.

 

“I know what you’re thinking, hyung,” Jongin sighs dejectedly.

 

“What?” Kyungsoo asks innocently, and Jongin growls.

 

“Okay, fine. You win this round, hyung. But don’t say anything. Not a thing.”

 

“Since when have you been the type to run away?” Kyungsoo’s reply is flat, almost thoughtless, and it makes Jongin angry, until the other amends with a short, “Alright.”

 

Jongin doesn’t allow him relief just yet. “Don’t tell him.”

 

“I won’t,” Kyungsoo promises before handing him a plate.

 

“You won’t?” he double-checks.

 

Kyungsoo smirks dubiously, the kind of smile that Jongin finds eerily disturbing about him. It makes the elder seem almost… inhuman.  He doesn’t even bother to give Jongin a verbal confirmation this time.  He simply goes, “Mhmm.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day, Jongin hears about Chanyeol. Sort of.

 

Jongin’s sister is the first one to get up during Monday mornings. She takes the daily paper and all of the envelopes to stack on a neat pile on the dining table. Jongin is still the primary source of income in the family as his sister is still on her third year of college, so the responsibility of the bills and taxes are on him.

 

But there it is on the newspaper, plain as day. Underneath the headlines regarding the latest economic breakdown, there’s a picture of Chanyeol and his fiancé, Sangmi. Or his ex–fiancé, as the paper had eloquently phrased: the wedding had been called off.

 

Jongin doesn’t know what to make out of it. He’s not even sure if he should feel anything about it at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Learning the politics of balancing between having Kyungsoo as a friend and having Kyungsoo boss him around has its merits. Jongin gets used to dividing his emotions: there’s the satisfaction of having a friend that knows him more than he knows himself, and the uneasiness that comes with reliving the old days.

 

But something is off about Kyungsoo today.

 

It’s Sunday, and Jongin had asked the older to come over to his house for help in composing his new song. Kyungsoo arrived a little later than usual, and he doesn’t leave the work desk the entire afternoon and lies face down on the table, looking almost comatose in his seat.

 

“You look horrible, hyung. More horrible than usual, at least.”

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t reply, and Jongin knows something is amiss. “Hey? You okay?”

 

Kyungsoo murmurs something along the lines of possibly a high fever. Jongin places a hand on his forehead. “So you’re sick? You could’ve said something, hyung. It makes me feel bad having to drag you all the way here.”

 

The small, black-haired boy nods almost imperceptibly, sliding a small envelope from across the table. Jongin peers inside, and then gapes at it in horror.

 

“Hyung—”

 

Kyungsoo mumbles, his eyes still closed. “Go. Tonight. Seven. Art… I know you’ve always liked…”

 

The younger shakes his head ardently. He folds his arms, almost like to shield himself. “Let’s get you to a hospital, hyung. You’re really feverish.”

 

“I’ll stay here... You know I don’t like doctors. Or needles.”

 

“I’m not going. It’s you on the invite.”

 

“There’s a stub for you too.”

 

“No, Kyungsoo—”

 

“You owe me.” Kyungsoo’s voice is a little clearer this time, and Jongin cringes.

 

Jongin debates with himself, until he decides to throw a blanket messily over Kyungsoo’s small frame.

 

He sighs. Kyungsoo had always been an onlooker to Jongin’s awkward, youthful, and very disastrous romance: the difference now is that Jongin has to bear the full extent of his old manager capitalizing his feelings for a certain person, since neither has to worry about losing their jobs anymore. “You’re really terrible, hyung,” Jongin quips finally.

 

Kyungsoo cracks a smile. “I’m… honored.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongin scrolls through the gallery, wandering aimlessly. Just a minute ago he’d seen Kris, dressed in the most luxurious tux Jongin had ever seen— “It’s sponsored,” the artist said with a dry smile, pacing to and fro the exhibit of _his_ artworks on display. Jongin had congratulated him, grinning from ear to ear.

 

He’s been here not too long ago, but he’s still surprised that he still knows his way around. There are a lot of people in the art show, and it had been so easy for Jongin to slip at the back of the gallery with no one noticing or even recognizing who he is, or had been.

 

He laughs to himself when he sees the gates of the restricted area open. This sort of happy recklessness he misses, and he feels something balloon inside his chest again.

 

The lights are open but the chamber is empty. Gone are the spears, the antique jars, the squadron of statues made out of the finest of marble—except for that one painting at the far end. Jongin squints his eyes and saunters towards it to get a closer look.

 

Jongin takes a sharp intake of breath as he recognizes the Monet copy-cat painting he had always disliked ever since he first saw it. “That’s—”

 

“If it’s the Pollock you’re looking for, I’m afraid it already flew back to America,” a voice says; it echoes in the almost barren chamber.  “Getty’s always a little territorial with his gold.”

 

He whirls around, and what really catches him off guard is how impossibly new Chanyeol looks, and how, at the same time, Chanyeol still looks the same. The older male is still all knees and elbows, slouches ever so slightly in his black suit. Jongin thinks he terribly needs a haircut.

 

“The day Kim Jongin has finally gained the ability to be sentimental has finally arrived,” he says serenely.

 

“How did you know I’d be down here?”

 

“Just a feeling,” Chanyeol chuckles, then straightens his features to form a small smile. “I thought you’d never come,” he confesses.

 

“Well, you _do_ know how to throw a party,” Jongin replies, hoping he doesn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

 

“Is Kris hyung enjoying himself?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.” Jongin smiles, and Chanyeol smiles back.

 

Chanyeol pauses for a while, before taking excruciatingly slow steps towards him, hesitating. He then slips a hand around Jongin’s fingers. When Jongin doesn’t let go, Chanyeol reels him in, pulling him close enough until Jongin hears the hitch between their breaths. The uneasiness dissipates so easily that Jongin feels slightly dizzy.

 

“I don’t have to tell you I love you, right?” Chanyeol says coyly, kissing him on the forehead. “I mean, it sounds rather creepy when my voice echoes here, don’t you think?”

 

Jongin laughs. After all those years of being an idol, he thought he could never really love anything or anyone forever, but at that moment, he’s glad he’s proven wrong. “Sure, hyung. Whatever you want.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**End notes:**

 

1Sorae Village in Banpo, also known as Korea’s Little France, is a small community in downtown Seoul. Almost 40% of Korea’s French community lives there. You can find authentic French wine, bread, and cheese there.

 

2The International Junior Art Festival in Gangneung is held every August, which should be the time Jongin and Chanyeol met each other, but I have taken artistic liberty (is there such a thing, lol) to move the festival three months later for the purposes of this fic. My apologies.

 


End file.
